she saw the mailbox Marcos had told her to watch for. She turned into the property. There was no sign announcing she’d arrived at Pete’s Retreat, no welcoming fence-lined driveway, just a long dirt path. After a minute, she spotted a corral with three horses, then some dogs began to bark, several rushing up to her car. She slowed way down, afraid of accidentally hitting one. Garrett Stone may take in strays, but he sure didn’t train them well. Or maybe he wasn’t home to call them off—
No. There he was, coming from a barn. Strolling, actually. Or maybe moseying, that slim-hipped stride she associated with cowboys, no-nonsense and no-hurry at the same time. He was as tall as she remembered, a foot taller than she, and she was five-four.
She stopped the car in front of his house, an old but well-maintained, single-story ranch style. He came to a halt in front of her vehicle and stared at her through the windshield, apparently not recognizing her. He still hadn’t called off the dogs, who barked and jumped. She felt imprisoned in her car.
Finally he made a motion with his hand and the dogs dropped to all fours and stopped barking. They sidled closer to him. With another hand motion, all but two dogs headed toward a barn.
Victoria opened the window and called out, “Hi! You probably don’t remember me. I’m Victoria Fortune. From the airport? The tornado?”
“I remember.” His face was shadowed by his hat, so she couldn’t judge his reaction, except she thought he was frowning.
“Will your dogs attack me if I get out of the car?”
“Probably not.”
She expected him to wink, as he had at the airport, but his expression never changed, no sign to indicate whether or not he was joking. Even though she felt unsure of her welcome, she grabbed her gift and opened the door. When the dogs didn’t growl, she climbed out, grateful she’d changed into jeans and boots so that she fit in better. Still he didn’t move.
“I was in the neighborhood…” she began. Nervous now, she brushed at some dust on her jeans, giving herself something to do, wishing he would pick up the conversation.
His mouth quirked, but whether it was a sign of annoyance or humor, she didn’t know.
She thrust the whiskey at him, apparently a little too hard. It hit him in the stomach and bounced off obviously strong abs. He grabbed for the container. The bottle fell—
He caught it at his knees.
“Whew!” she said, grinning. “Good catch.”
He eyed the container. If he knew how expensive it was, he didn’t indicate it; he just waited for her to speak. Or leave, she guessed.
“Maybe we could go inside?” she asked.
“Why?” he asked.
“I—I’d like to talk to you.”
“Here’s as good a place as any. You’re interrupting my work.”
“What do you do?”
“This ‘n that.”
She crossed her arms. He might look exactly like the man from the airport, but he no longer seemed like the winking type. “You’re loving this, aren’t you?”
“What?”
“Being the taciturn cowboy. Keeping the myth alive.”
“Taciturn. That’s a mighty big word, ma’am.”
Aha! There was a glimmer in his gorgeous blue eyes. He was just playing with her. He’d probably decided she was just another pretty face. “Something tells me you know its definition, but okay. You win. I came here to thank you for saving my life.”
“You told me three months ago.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You kissed me. Pretty much said it all. Can’t say it was the best kiss I’ve ever had planted on me, but I got what you were meaning by it.”
She narrowed her eyes. “If I’d wanted to kiss you in a memorable way, I would’ve, but I guarantee you I put more emotion into that one kiss than any other I’ve given.”
“Well, isn’t that a sorry state of affairs.”
“I’m a good kisser!”
“If you say so, ma’am.” He touched the brim of his hat. “Have a safe drive back to town.” He walked away from her.
She called out, “You know, cowboy, where I come from, it’s rude to walk out on a visitor.”
“Where I come from, princess,” he said over his shoulder, “it’s rude to drop in uninvited.”
Chapter Two
Garrett didn’t slow his stride. His old hound Pete trotted beside him and kept looking back at the woman who’d audibly gasped her indignation at his abrupt dismissal. Truth was, she tempted him mightily, and he was afraid if he invited her in, even for just a second, he would fall under her spell. It was obvious that she was trouble with a capital T.
The moment he’d caught sight of her at the airport three months ago, he’d felt gut punched. A few seconds later he’d recovered enough to wink at her, but had kept walking because he’d been inclined to start up a conversation, which would’ve been a big mistake. She wasn’t his type at all, which had made it all the more baffling. Two birthdays from now he would turn forty. She looked barely out of college. She was petite and dark-haired, and he was partial to blonde and tall, or at least closer to his own six foot four than she was. She wore designer-chic clothes, even her jeans and boots had probably come from a boutique or something, and she’d already turned up her nose at the good Texas dust that had settled on her jeans as if she’d been contaminated.
He’d met plenty of high-maintenance women in his life. He’d learned to avoid them, especially after an experience a couple of years back with a woman named Crystal, one he’d like to forget, except for the lesson learned.
But he also liked women with curves. Give him more than a handful of a woman in his big bed and he was happy, especially if she was just passing through. He didn’t date women looking for long-term, and felt no need for conversation or companionship on a regular basis.
Sure, the petite Ms. Victoria Fortune of the Atlanta Fortunes was wife material—but not for him. She’d had stars in her eyes when she’d arrived a few minutes ago. He wasn’t sure what had caused them. Glorification of him as her hero, maybe? He’d never been a hero in anyone’s eyes before. Just the opposite, in fact. He’d been blamed for lots he didn’t do, just because people expected it.
He’d been a rabble-rouser in his youth, prone to bar fights and speeding tickets, but that’d been years ago. And then there was that incident with Jenny Kirkpatrick….
It hadn’t mattered that he’d been a teenager at the time—nor had he been the guilty party. Some reputations couldn’t be lived down, however, so he’d stopped trying.
Pete assumed his usual dog-sentinel
